


Brace-Face

by BigBoyParty



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Advice Columnist Chan, Awkward Flirting, Braces, Explicit Consent, Grindr, HIV/AIDS, Heart-to-Heart, Humiliation, Lipstick, M/M, Past Character Death, Porn Addict Minho, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBoyParty/pseuds/BigBoyParty
Summary: "It wasn’t just Chan’s braces that made him fascinating to Minho. Chan also had a Grindr profile, with a picture of his teeth bared and red lipstick smeared inelegantly around his mouth. The profile had only the name “BRACE-FACE” attached to it, but Minho would recognize those blue rubber bands anywhere, and he knew the bio by heart:5’ 7” POZ DICK PIG LOOKING FOR DOMINANT YOUNGER MALE. CALL ME YOUR BRACE-FACE BITCH AND SHOW ME HOW REAL MEN FUCK."-Minho has an obsession with his coworker Chan, a 42 year old advice columnist with dental braces.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam, Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 20
Kudos: 166





	Brace-Face

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! We love adult braces Chan in this house. No major content warnings, though there's some discussions of past death beginning roughly halfway through.

* * *

_“Grass stains cut my bloody knees. It’s goodpain, it means I can’t be phased.”_

_\- Goodpain, Yoke Lore  
_

* * *

In a frankly miraculous turn of events, Chan’s adult braces were hot.

He wasn’t Minho’s boss, thank god, so Minho felt a little less weird about staring at him across the meeting room like this. Watching Chan’s mouth stretch around the wires and licking his lips.

Chan wrote advice columns, like this:

_Dear Janet,_

_My sister and her fiance are planning an expensive wedding in Hawaii, and she has asked me to act as her maid of honor. I am flattered at her request, but right now I just can’t afford to fly out for the ceremony. Is it a breach of etiquette to ask for some financial assistance, or should I turn down her request altogether. Help!_

_– Maid of Honor Goner_

_Dear Maid of Honor Goner...._

Minho wondered if Chan had always used “Janet” as a pseudonym, or if there was once a real Janet. Maybe she had messy grey hair and friendly wrinkles, like Minho had always imagined when he read the advice columns as a kid. Imaginary Janet would smile up at him from her little bubble on the page, adjusting purple-rimmed glasses on that beaded chain around her neck and dispensing wisdom like “out of sight, out of mind should play no part in love.” Her picture was still in the paper, though under her bio was a second, smaller bio for Chan himself. The kind of thing that would only fly at the trashy local paper where they worked. 

Minho wondered if the readers knew it was Chan behind that friendly, upper-middle-aged woman’s face. Maybe Chan was speaking through a dead woman’s mouth.

Minho couldn’t judge much, he put less effort into his columns than anyone else at the paper, choosing instead to spend his time watching Chan at his desk nearby. Sometimes Chan brought sandwiches in for lunch and Minho would watch him eat them. Chan would roll down the edge of his paper bag and pull out some sad little white bread concoction, the kind of thing a lazy father packs their 8 year old for lunch. Minho always watched Chan reaching towards the back of his mouth to pull out his rubber bands, then taking big bites of the sandwich which left white bread crushed underneath the wire of his braces. Chan always forgot a napkin, and sometimes a little bit of mayonnaise would squirt out the side of his sandwich and land on his ill-fitting charcoal slacks. Minho always had to look away when this happened, blushing.

It wasn’t just Chan’s braces that made him fascinating to Minho. Chan also had a grindr profile, with a picture of his teeth bared and red lipstick smeared inelegantly around his mouth. The profile had only the name “BRACE FACE” attached to it, but Minho would recognize those blue rubber bands anywhere, and he knew the bio by heart:

5’ 7” POZ DICK PIG LOOKING FOR DOMINANT YOUNGER MALE. CALL ME YOUR  
BRACE-FACE BITCH AND SHOW ME HOW REAL MEN FUCK.

Chan was never online. Minho checked, frequently. Sometimes he’d even send messages, when it was the middle of the night and he was too high to hold back. Little annoying things like, “Nice profile lol,” or “Hey, do you work at the Observer?” or “You still single? Ur braces are hot.” Messages which were ultimately benign, but left Minho with a heavy shame in his stomach every time he saw them again in the morning, like he knew they would accomplish nothing beyond embarrassing him.

After a few too many nights spent checking grindr and frantically searching up “gay braces boy” videos online, Minho knew that no substitute could satisfy his obsession with his coworker. And so Minho, quiet fidgeting Minho who only had confidence on hookup apps, resolved himself to asking Chan out.

At the water cooler, it went something like this:

“Hey, Chan! How’s it going?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Great, great, uh hey. This is kind of a weird question, but do you happen to have a grindr?”

Chan paused and flushed a little, then regained his composure, “I don't really like to mix my work and my personal life, Minho.”

“Sure, sure, but like, if you ever did happen to have one- a grindr, do you think the profile would look maybe, like-”

“Have a good day.”

Or later, right outside the office, when Minho regained some of his confidence:

“Chan! Would you look at that, the work day’s over. Do you have a minute?”

This time, the older man smiled a little, “I have exactly one minute. What’s up?”

“Oh, awesome! I uh. Well, I was wondering if you’d be interested in like, going out sometime or like hooking up or something. You know, whatever.”

“Aah, I don't know,” Chan smiled knowingly, “Can you show me how real men fuck?” Minho stammered, and before he could come up with a response, Chan cut him off, “Oh, times up. Better luck next time.”

Or the next day, when Minho spotted Chan’s shoes under the office’s bathroom stall and called through the thin metal wall:

“Brace-face?”

“NOT IN HERE!”

Eventually, Chan relented, stopping Minho as he left the building.

“Alright,” he said with a smile, “You win.” Chan clapped one hand on Minho’s shoulder, “Are you free tonight?

Minho smiled, “Yeah, I’m free. I don't know if I’m _man_ enough for you though.”

And Chan rolled his eyes, “You’ll be just fine, Minho. It’s just the one night out though, okay? Just one night.”

Just one night.

Minho didn’t usually spend this long getting ready for dates. He ran the water as hot as possible and shaved over his sink, fretting over every little nick his nervous tremors gave him. Truthfully, Minho hadn’t been on a _date_ in a while, maybe ever. Usually, he turned up at some guy's house off grindr. They’d smoke or drink or just get right to it, Minho shimmying out of his jeans, the stranger pulling off the stretched-out boxers he was probably lazing around in all day. Minho prided himself in being kind of a bitch, but behind that, he felt like nothing at all. A shy kid with his body grown too large for him, late night porn binges with his cat watching him  
apprehensively from the windowsill. Minho bit his nails off, swallowed them, and filed down the jagged edges so Chan wouldn’t spot his bad habit.

Uber was too expensive, but Minho saved up for nights like this. He sat in the back seat, the glow of Chan’s bared teeth in his profile picture lighting Minho’s face up from underneath. He imagined what that red lipstick tasted like, whatever brand was smeared across Chan’s lips in the image. Maybe his coworker still had a tube laying around. Maybe some of it would stick to Minho’s lips when they kissed, and he’d carry the stain home with him.

_Dear Janet,_

_Help! My husband and I just moved to the area, and our anniversary is coming up this month! He’s a very sweet man, and I really want to take him somewhere nice, but I don't know where. What are the best date spots in the city?_

_– Anniversary Anxiety_

Sometimes they made Chan answer questions like that. Boring ones, probably submitted by some business owner who just wanted to pay their way into getting a recommendation. Usually, this kind of thing left Chan feeling down, but sometimes he stumbled into nice little places he wouldn’t have known about. This was one of those places.

It was a little beer garden, hidden behind a darkened restaurant in an old brick building, where moss grew between the paving stones and delicate solar lamps lit the world in shades of amber. 

Minho nearly puked upon entering. He released all of his tension in one painfully embarrassing full body shake, letting the short-haired hipster hostess lead him through the restaurant and back onto the patio, where Chan was already seated.

Chan did not stand up when Minho arrived, undoubtedly an intentional move from Janet the Advice Columnist himself. Instead, Chan smiled at the hostess and leaned back a little in his seat. This light was kind to him, not that Minho had ever minded the way he looked under the harsh fluorescents in the office either. Here, Chan’s skin was smooth and glowy, and the wrinkles around his eyes were softer, even when he smiled. 

“Hi, Minho.”

“Hey Brace-face,” Minho smiled, “Can I call you Brace-face?”

“You can call me Chan. You cleaned up well.”

“You too.” Minho really meant it. Chan was in this well-fitting flannel shirt and the kind of slim dark jeans you could only expect from a man who knows how to flatter his legs. “What are you drinking?” Minho asked, glancing at the tall glass in Chan’s hand.

“Dark and stormy.” Chan smiled and handed the glass over for Minho to take a sip, “I like it because it’s a rum drink but it sounds kinda butch, you know? I’ve been drinking them since college.”

Minho watched Chan’s lips stretch around his braces on the word _butch_ , that jumble of consonants at the end blurring together into some mushy sound. Spit bubbling. _Butch_ was clearly not an easy word for Chan to say with braces, but it seemed like it was made for Chan’s mouth all the same. Minho could watch Chan’s lips crack around a mouthful of metal brackets and the word _butch_ any day of the week.

“So,” Chan asked later, once they had both gotten a few drinks in, “What do you want to know?”

It was a ridiculous conversation starter, but Minho was now drunk enough to feel he had the authority to humor him, so he replied, “What’s the deal with Janet? Did she die or something? Did you come up with her?”

Chan laughed, “I wish I could say that I came up with Janet.” He leaned across the table, like he was about to tell the best story in the world, “Janet last wrote for the observer in 1931.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. So, I know what you’re thinking, who’s been playing Janet since then? Well, in the thirties, a guy named Rob picked it up from her, I think he was her grandson or something, and after that: Bruce, James, Albert, on and on until you get to Reggie, who gave the job to me. All men, all Janet. And you may be wondering, well, what ties all these men together, right?”

Minho watched every movement of Chan’s lips as he talked, Chan’s eyes widening as he eagerly leaned forward. “What is it?” Minho asked, when the suspense became unbearable.

“They’re all gay.” Chan had the expression of a man who had just uncovered a wild conspiracy, “90 years of advice columnists, all gay, all men, all Janet!” Chan grinned and leaned back in his seat, gesturing with a glass of rattling ice cubes, “Now tell me that’s not a legacy.”

“You’re lying.” Chan just gave Minho a cheesy little shrug,

“Maybe I am. Good story either way.”

Chan, as it turned out, was full of good stories like that. Minho would set him on a topic — best letters he’d gotten for Ask Janet, worst outfits worn by their boss, most painful foods to give up eating when you have braces put on at 35 years old — and Chan would go full speed ahead, making grand, sweeping gestures with his glass and talking with a mouthful of food. There was a charming sort of community theatre energy about the way Chan told his stories, making something spectacular out of everything. Minho laughed loud and watched the crumbs fly out between Chan’s brackets.

Later, Minho leaned across the table and took hold of Chan’s hand. It was larger than his, a little rougher where it wasn’t drenched in sweat. “Take me home,” Minho said, and Chan smiled.

“Alright.”

_Dear Janet,_

_How do you know when you’re in love? I’ve been with my partner for almost a year now, and we definitely have fun together! Good sex, he’s handsome and funny and definitely sweet, but sometimes I just don't know. Is there a way to tell when your fondness for someone is capital-L Love? Am I some kind of evil person for not even knowing if I’m in love with my boyfriend?_

_Stone-Cold in the Suburbs_

Chan’s hand was large and warm in the ride back to his place too. Minho held it between both of his own, tracing his fingertips through the sweaty patch at the center of Chan’s palm, then over each of his wrinkled knuckles. Chan’s fingernails had a distinctive vertical ridge to them, probably unhealthy, but fascinating to Minho’s hands in the dark.

“So, how long have you been staring at that profile and working up the nerve to say something about it?”

Minho laughed and flopped back in his seat, dragging Chan’s hand onto his thigh, “Don't ask me that, it’s embarrassing.”

Chan squeezed Minho’s leg and smiled, “Why?”

“Because...”

“Is it a long time?” Minho rolled his eyes and watched Chan’s smile widen, braces flashing in the dark backseat of the Uber. He wanted his tongue between the brackets, but he settled for running his fingers over Chan’s hairy wrist instead.

“Brace-face.”

Chan’s place was unexpectedly nice. It was the bottom floor of a row home in the city, a nice part of town. The overhead lights buzzed a little and there were old stains on the backsplash, but it was pleasant. An overstuffed grey couch and shining hardwood floors. Without thinking, Minho kicked his shoes off and plopped himself on the couch. He’d certainly had enough to drink.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Chan commented, and it was only half genuine. He passed easily through the living room and into the kitchen, calling out to Minho on the way, “Do you want anything? I’m gonna make some espresso.”

“You have an espresso machine?” Minho called back, hoisting himself onto his feet.

“Yeah, that’s the nice thing about being an adult with expendable income.”

And so Chan set up the espresso machine, and Minho got to work looking through Chan’s stuff. He skimmed the headlines on a stack of _Observer_ back issues. “Greatest hits?” Minho asked, fingering through the newsprint. Some of the advice columns had Chan’s name on it, but some were from earlier contributors. There was even a pad of scratch paper nearby, with quotes scribbled on it:

_The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or heard, but must be felt with the heart._

_The comeback is always stronger than the setback._

_Don't miss out on something great just because it could also be difficult._

Like a little greeting card bible.

“Something like that,” Chan responded so late Minho had almost forgotten his question altogether, so Minho just nodded and continued to amble around the room. It was well-decorated. Minho’s eyes caught on a little urn on the tall corner shelf, sparklingly clean and surrounded with dandelions which may as well have been picked that morning. Next to it, there was a picture of a man with a sharp face and sharper outfit, orange-toned aviator glasses atop his head and a grin across his face. He was holding a little dog in his lap, and his loose patterned button down was unbuttoned so deep it nearly exposed one of his nipples.

“Who is this?” Minho asked, glancing briefly into the kitchen. Chan had his back turned, his flannel shirt stretching nicely across his shoulders as he tinkered with the espresso machine.

“Who?”

“The picture. I mean.” Minho glanced from the picture to the urn and back again, “Uh. The one. Next to the urn....” Minho coughed, “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Oh. That’s Bam Bam,” Chan responded. His braces made smiling with his mouth closed impossible, but Minho had the sense that’s what he would be doing if he could right now, “He was a friend.”

Chan said friend in the way Minho’s parents said _friend_ sometimes, when they really meant boyfriend but were too afraid to say it. He put a little espresso mug in Minho’s hand and picked up the picture. With one thumb, Chan wiped off the top edge of the frame, as if there was any dust to clear away there.

“Were you in love with him?” Minho asked, and Chan responded ambiguously,

“You really are a writer, aren’t you.” Chan set the picture frame back on the shelf and went back into the kitchen.

And for a moment, Minho figured that would be it: a brief detour before he turned around and picked through another trinket on one of Chan’s shelves. But Chan was a writer too.

“He and I made the grindr profile together.” Minho watched Chan’s back move as he talked over the whir and hiss of the espresso machine, breathing evenly, “He liked the braces too, and we got all kinds of guys to come over. Nervous, jock-y college students. Guys in ties and big belts who were always surprised to find Bam Bam running the show. It was awesome. I don't really look at it any more.” When Chan had his own tiny mug furnished, he turned around and leaned back against the counter, running his tongue up against his braces as he paused to think. 

“He used to wear these long, black latex gloves. They nearly went up to his armpits. Everyone knew that when Bam Bam had his gloves on, he was the most powerful person in the world. There was no question about it.” Chan didn’t tell Minho that he still caught the smell of latex sometimes when he was showering, the taste of two gloved fingers in his mouth when he was on the very edge of sleep. Instead, he looked right at Minho and smiled graciously with a mouthful of metal, “Is that what you wanted to know?”

Minho blinked.

“Yeah...sorry.”

“Don't be.” The space between Chan and Minho closed up a little, so Chan could set his empty espresso mug next to Minho’s on the living room windowsill. Something about Chan’s presence felt realer now, when Minho could feel his warmth and spot the texture of his skin. 

“Let’s not dwell on the past.” Minho could see Chan’s adam’s apple move when he talked, could feel the warmth when Chan took one of Minho’s hands and placed it on the back of his neck, moving still closer. 

Minho thought Chan would say something else, but he didn’t. Instead, he opened his mouth slightly and ran his tongue over the bottom edge of his teeth, just barely touching his braces. Minho could smell Chan’s breath. His hand tightened on the back of Chan’s neck and, in one swift move, he kissed him.

Chan’s mouth was sharp and unrefined. His lips, which barely managed to close around his braces, now enveloped Minho’s in their warmth. His breath was hot, and when Minho’s tongue finally made its way to trace the ridges of the elder’s brackets, Chan let out this delicious little moan. Minho let Chan’s hands roam heavy on his waist, then his hips, then his ass. He pulled Chan’s hair, smiling when the elder let out a moan and jamming his tongue against Chan’s blue rubber bands. He was messy, and he was thrilled.

“What do you want?” Chan asked, his breath heaving a little, eyes locked on Minho’s own.

Minho wanted everything, but he’d settle for a short list.

“I want you to put that lipstick on and suck me off,” as he said it, Minho ran his thumb over Chan’s face and pushed it into his mouth, against his teeth, “And I want to cum on your braces.”

Chan grinned, and the light glinting off his braces sent a hot wave through Minho’s stomach. “That sounds perfect,” he said, grabbing Minho by the hand and pulling him into his bedroom.

The bedroom was small, right off of the kitchen, and dark. Minho and Chan kissed their way inside, breaking apart only for Chan to turn on a lamp and grab a tube of lipstick from the bedside table. Minho took Chan by two of his belt loops and pulled him close. Chan looked younger in low light like this, smoother. Minho kissed him and palmed the lipstick, turning its soft tube over and over in his hand.

“Get on the bed,” Minho ordered, and Chan compiled. Minho flicked on another light, an unflattering overhead that turned them both a little green and smiled, “Now I can see you better.”

Minho towered over Chan when he was seated like this. The older man sat forward on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist, burying his face in Minho’s stomach. He looked shy and playful like this, Minho’s shirt catching on the sharp parts of his braces. Endearing, but Minho wanted to see him uglier than that.

“Look at me.” Minho popped the cap off the lipstick and angled Chan’s face up towards him. Chan was smiling again, his braces on full display. For a moment, Minho considered telling Chan to close his mouth, but then the image of lipstick caught in Chan’s braces entered his mind.

Minho’s lips curled into a mean little smirk, getting hold of Chan’s hair in one fist and putting one foot up on the bed to steady his grip. The younger ran one thumb over Chan’s braces, feeling every ridge, before pressing the tip of the lipstick at the left side of Chan’s mouth. The lipstick went on in one thick smear, greasy and far from flattering, just how Minho wanted it. He ran it around Chan’s lips a few times, letting some of it get on Chan’s teeth or flake off in ugly chunks along Chan’s stubble.

“There you go,” Minho cooed, recapping the lipstick and dropping it on the floor beside him. He grabbed Chan’s face between both of his hands and pressed one thumb hard against his lips, smudging a long streak of red down the left side of his chin, “Pretty.”

Chan smiled, caught Minho’s thumb in his mouth, and sucked on it. He let his mouth fall passively open, his tongue hanging out slack and a challenge in his eyes. Minho ran his thumb over Chan’s tongue, then up against his braces again. He put one thumb to Chan’s canine tooth and pressed hard, watching Chan’s face wrinkle up in pain, little tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck,” Minho muttered, and Chan began to fumble with his buttons.

Minho pulled his shirt off over his head and watched Chan remove his own, fingers stumbling, glancing up every once in a while with that big, shameless grin. “Look at you,” Minho laughed as he climbed out of his pants, “Brace-face.”

Chan, now that he was finally stripped of his shirt, wrapped his arms around Minho’s legs and clung, pulling himself off of the bed and onto his knees. Minho looked down at him, intense and hungry, and Chan smiled up. He leaned in and pressed his face against Minho’s thigh, letting his brackets leave little imprints on the skin. Minho was hard already, but it certainly didn’t hurt when Chan’s rough hand wrapped around his length, sweaty palm sliding down his shaft. Chan let his mouth hang open again, tongue out and a smile in his eyes. It was a surprisingly flattering pose for the 42 year old advice columnist Minho watched at his desk every day. Clearly, this was where Chan really thrived.

Minho grabbed Chan’s hair and pushed his dick into the elder’s mouth.

Chan must have sucked dick with braces on before, he was an expert. He hung his jaw open wide so Minho’s skin wouldn’t get caught in his front brackets or the metal bands which wrapped around 4 of his molars. Chan’s tongue dexterously crawled along the underside of Minho’s cock, teasing out his frenulum and pressing flat against his shaft. Minho let out a groan and pushed Chan down further, until he could feel the elder’s lipstick sticking to his pubes.

Minho was happy to find that Chan had very little gag reflex, maybe none at all, as the older man relaxed his thick neck and let Minho jerk his head around by the hair. Minho fucked ruthlessly into Chan’s throat, his thighs quivering, the head of his dick pushing against the tight wetness at the back of Chan’s mouth. No one can shove their dick so far down a throat without some resistance, that’s how the body is built to work, but for Minho that was the best part. He watched Chan’s eyes roll, his face turn red and lipstick smear across his chin. Chan didn’t gag but he swallowed a lot, contracting helplessly around Minho’s cock. Minho held Chan’s face against him and moaned, giving a few more shallow thrusts before letting the elder go.

Chan fell away with a gasp, spitting onto the floor, then looked up at Minho with his braces out and mouth hanging open. Minho was happy to fuck his throat some more, but not without taking advantage of this moment and getting his hands on Chan’s mouth. He jerked himself off with one hand, taking Chan’s rough cheek in the other and smearing Chan’s lipstick with one thumb. Messy bitch. Minho pulled Chan’s lips back with both hands now, stretching them wide to expose his braces and gums, and letting his eyes suck up all they could of the sight. He spat once in Chan’s mouth, watching it catch and drip off his brackets. Minho wanted to rip off Chan’s braces and wrap them around his dick.

“Open,” he ordered, and Chan complied, revealing his molars. Minho wanted to pull those little metal rings from Chan’s back molars and swallow them. Instead, he forced his cock down Chan’s throat once more.

When Minho pulled out for the final time, Chan’s lips were raw and pink. His lipstick was smeared everywhere. Minho pulled his lips back once more and jerked himself off quickly, his grunting small and gross and unrestrained. He pushed the tip of his cock up against Chan’s braces and came, shuddering, leaving a thick white splatter over Chan’s teeth.

Slowly, a glob dripped down under the wire, running along the metal on one of Chan’s front teeth. Chan’s tongue crept out and cleaned it up in one long motion.

Minho grabbed Chan by the hair and forced him back onto the bed, kissing him deeply again and again, until his lips were stained red too and his mouth tasted metallic and rubbery. Chan scrambled to remove his pants, laughing when his feet got stuck in his jeans and he nearly kicked Minho in the stomach trying to free himself from them.

“Clumsy,” Minho commented, but Chan was far past embarrassment by this point.

“Kiss me,” he whined, gripping his cock in one hand and jerking himself off desperately. So they kissed, Minho putting both hands in Chan’s hair and forcing his head back against the mattress so hard it made his neck hurt. When Chan came, pulling one lip between his teeth around a ridge of braces, he shoved Minho off of him. He let out these rapid breaths, his torso shaking violently as cum streaked across it, and then going slack.

Chan kissed Minho again and let out one long breath right in his face, before smiling and rolling to the side, retrieving a box of baby wipes from his bedside table. He wiped off his stomach, and Minho watched him with a gentle smile.

“That lipstick really gets everywhere huh?” he commented, watching Chan pull out a second wipe and start to scrub the redness from his face.

“Yeah, we’ll have to shower.” Chan shut the lid on the box, launching himself back onto the bed and pulling Minho close, “Let’s just lie here a little bit first.”

Minho nodded and curled himself into Chan’s grasp, letting Chan latch onto his back and trail little kisses down the back of his neck. Minho’s eyes wandered the room. Out the window, he could see down an alleyway to a construction project which was stalled the next street over. The clock by this side of the bed flashed 12:30 AM in bright blue numbers, and beside it a younger Chan smiled back at him. His hair here was bleach-fried and he was grinning around a mouthful of crooked teeth, red lipstick on and some satiny dress just barely reaching his thighs. Bam Bam, that same face from the picture in the other room, had one black latex-gloved arm around Chan’s waist, and he smiled too.

“We should do this again,” Minho murmured, feeling Chan’s soft lips curl into a smile against his neck.

“Just one night.” 

“Oh please,” Minho rolled over so he could look the elder in the eyes and comb one hand through his hair, “Don't act like you didn’t enjoy it.” 

Chan laughed and blushed, “I did!” Minho kissed him again, tracing the outline of a purple lesion he hadn’t noticed before near Chan’s collar bone.

“So....why not enjoy it some more?”

Chan kissed Minho again, his body resting heavy and warm on top of the younger, dick pressing against his thigh. When they parted, he took Minho’s cheeks in both of his hands and smiled. “You’re very pretty, Minho, but I’m not going to be your tragic older lover. You deserve better than that.”

Minho wrinkled his brow and pulled Chan’s hands off of his face, “What the fuck do you mean? There’s nothing tragic about you, don't say stuff like that.”

“No, I know, you’re very sweet. Just think about it, though. I’m 42 years old, I’ve settled into a mediocre job at a local newspaper and a mediocre little home in the city. Every day I eat mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for lunch. My house is full of pictures of my dead partner, and the same virus will probably kill me sooner than my natural life would otherwise end.” Chan took Minho’s hand and placed it gently over the lesion at the base of his neck, “You are so young, Minho, now is not the time for you to settle in with someone like me.”

Minho sighed and rolled away from Chan dramatically, his eyes trained on the alarm clock’s simple blue numbers. 12:43.

There was a moment of silence, before Chan murmured, “Don't miss out on something great just because it could also be difficult.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you!” Minho sat up and turned to face Chan, who was still lying on his back, blushing and smiling wide. “That’s from your fucking notebook!” Minho accused, and Chan broke out laughing.

“How did you know that?”

“It’s on your fucking coffee table, Chan, it’s not a secret.”

“Alright, alright, fair enough. How about: The comeback is always stronger than the setback.”

“That one too! First page!” Minho was giggling now too, “That doesn’t even fit the situation anyway.”

Chan’s smile shifted a little, but it was still warm. “Okay, here’s a Chan original: You’re a beautiful, smart, funny man, and someday soon you’ll find another beautiful man who paints his nails and laughs at your jokes and you’ll fall wildly, extravagantly in love with him. And maybe you’ll still think about me sometimes, but you’ll be glad that what we did was brief and fun and nothing more than that.” Chan’s eyes wrinkled up at the corners and his fingers laced through Minho’s own, “I’d still like you to spend the night though.”

Minho chewed on the inside of his mouth and watched Chan move their clasped hands around.

“Alright.”

_Dear Janet,_

_I recently ended my relationship with my boyfriend of 3 years. I was devastated, but I’m finally feeling ready to get back out there. There’s just one problem: Dating is so frustrating! Especially with our current hook-up culture, how do people keep the energy for all these fleeting nights out with guys who will never call us back? Whatever happened to romance, or at the very least, integrity? Please advise, Janet, before I give up on dating forever!_

_– Dating Depression_

In the morning, Chan made Minho coffee but not breakfast, and drove him home. Minho held the elder’s face in his hands and drank in as much of him as he could tuck away in his memory, before kissing Chan goodbye and walking up to his apartment. 

For a while, he laid in bed and thought about Chan’s smile. He fed his cat a full can of tuna fish and watched her devour it in 30 seconds flat, his chin in his hands, thinking about the stubble at the back of Chan’s jaw and the greasy bridge of his nose. Minho tried watching porn, but the actor’s braces weren’t Chan’s braces, and he just ended up staring at the ceiling again, Chan’s moans replaying in his ears. 

For the weekend, Minho was basically incapacitated, and on Monday he faced Chan with a smile. On his lunch break, he spared himself the sight of Chan eating his sad white bread sandwich and walked to the Starbucks down the street.

Someone new was working there. He had blonde hair, tied back in this tiny half ponytail, and dark eyes which wrinkled up sweetly when he smiled.

“Slow-uh slow day?” Minho stammered out, after the new barista took his order. The guy smiled and fumbled the cup he was grabbing off the stack, laughing anxiously under his breath.

“Yeah, thank god. I just moved here, so I uh-” Minho watched the barista pause before marking the cup, eventually setting it down on the counter without even writing anything and looking up at Minho with the expression of someone looking down the barrel of a gun, “I just completely forgot your order. What did you want again?”

“Grande vanilla latte,” Minho glanced at the cup, “And that’s a tall anyway, so it’s a good thing you didn’t write on it.”

“God!” the barista laughed, “I’m hopeless. Okay, grande vanilla latte. Minho, right?”

“Yeah.” 

That cup looked good in the barista’s hand, his fingers wrapped almost completely around it and his nails were painted a shimmering lilac purple. He smiled, “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”

Minho smiled back, “I like your nails, Hyunjin.”

With his receipt in hand, Minho stood back from the counter and watched as Hyunjin’s coworker showed him how she made the drink. Hyunjin’s big hands were awkward on the machines, flinching back with a flustered smile whenever he messed up. Minho kept catching him glancing back, the slightest flush in his cheeks, eyes wide and nervous.

On his way back to the office, Minho glanced over his coffee cup and found something scrawled onto the side of it. A phone number, then:

 _~ Hyunjin ~~ <3 Call me!!_ _  
_ _^ I hope I can’t get fired for this._

And Minho smiled to himself.

* * *

_“Find love, build it on sand, built it on bricks, build it on land_  
_Find love swaying in the wind, watching it tumble, build it back again_  
_Find love lying on the shore, drifting out to sea, lost forevermore._  
_Find love, strangest of things. The chaos inside, the peace that it brings.”_

_\- Standing in the Middle of a Field, Cut Copy  
_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

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> CuriousCat:[BigBoyEels](https://curiouscat.qa/BigBoyEels)
> 
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